


Para J.V.

by nirejseki



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Centaurs, Disturbing Themes, Juvie, M/M, Magic, Rip Gets Punched, not too bad, slight body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 19:01:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8221541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: There's not much to do in paranormal juvie for a centaur like Mick, but then this kid shows up...





	1. Chapter 1

There isn’t a lot to do in Para J.V., so called because unlike the human "juvenile detention centers", the paranormal version of juvie really is just a junior varsity version of jail. Oh, sure, they have teachers and schooling and shit, reintroduction and rehabilitation programs like they’re some sort of owl breeding habitat designed to re-release them into the wild. But the rest of the time is spent trying to corral them all inside the jail - vamps and weres and Fae and harpies and centaurs like Mick being the majority, sure, but there are plenty of other more unique man-killers: a basilisk, two naga sisters hissing poison, a spring-heeled jack who it turned out has extendable blades in his palms as well as his feet and who ends up leading a gang of wannabe tough guys. 

The teachers spend so much time keeping them from getting out, the _inside_ of paranormal juvie is a land of lawlessness with the only rules being the ones you're willing to fight to keep in place. 

Mick wonders sometimes if human juvie is similar. He wouldn't know - his kind aren't shifters, and the paranormal retreated from humans long enough ago that humans have started theorizing that centaurs were actually ignorant people's idea of seeing mounted human riders for the first time which, seriously, fuck no. 

His family had survived by making a deal with a family of salamanders, which could project images of humanity onto them as long as no one noticed them taking a bit too long to exit a given doorway, and by staying on a farm in the middle of nowhere.

Mick, as a kid, had coaxed out lessons in fire-casting from the salamanders; it turned out he had a talent for it. It turned out, when his father went spare and turned on his son with a gelding knife, that he _really_ had a talent for it.

Out of respect for his dad's memory - it hadn't been his fault that he'd been lonely after Mick's mother died and developed a fondness for fairy wine, nor was it his fault that the Fae bartender he relied on was cutting his batches with mad-fairy tonic - Mick had let them think it was all his fault. 

Pyromania was both true and irrelevant to him galloping off from the scene of the crime to set the Fae bartender and his bar on fire, too, in what the human authorities called a possible psychotic break and what the inhuman authorities called a spree. 

So they'd pulled him away from human authority, as they did with any paranormal, and tossed him in paranormal juvie instead. 

The other centaurs stuck in here tended to be middle of the pack, neither masters of the place nor everyone’s kick-me toys. They’re by and large delicate things: a well-bred Arabian with a fondness for shoplifting that had escalated, a Frisian with a long neck and probably an addiction of some sort from the way his withers were always covered in sweat. But Mick's from a strong line, pure shire draft horse with maybe a hint of Clydesdale mixed in some generations back, fourteen hands high and still growing, and he shattered the ribs of the first three assholes that tried to start something with him in a single kick, so everyone treated him with respect even without knowing about the whole fire-starting trick. Since Mick doesn't want the teachers finding out about it, insofar as he'd even be able to use any of it inside the tightly warded walls of juvie, he's more than willing to use fist and hoof to make a place for himself.

He's not a gang leader because he chased away the first few would-be suck-ups with the same viciousness that he paid to the bullies, but he's respected. When the rumor finally went around about his family's demise - everyone seems to think the fire took both his parents, and some siblings he's never had, but whatever - that changed to fear. He's left alone.

He prefers it that way.

It's his distance from the others that means that Mick doesn't hear the gossip until the whole yard is aflame with it. The Arabian is kicking up grass again, and eventually Mick looks over to see what's up; taking that as a cue, the kid floats over to dish to Mick. The fucker thinks he's hot stuff, and he is, with the daintiest set of hooves Mick's ever seen, but he's also slept with half of juvie by now so Mick's firmly put himself in the not interested camp. Doesn't stop Rashad from trying.

"What's the big deal?" Mick asks flatly when Rashad gets close enough, cutting off whatever oblique way Rashad had been planning to bring up the subject.

Rashad pouts and tosses his long hair - another centaur stereotype, men and women alike, which is why Mick asks the juvie barber for a buzz every week - and says, "It's intake day -"

"No shit," Mick says. "But the yard's a lot more bouncy than usual about getting some fresh meat."

"It's one of the new kids," Ramesh says, voice hushed like literally everyone else doesn't know what he's talking about. "He's _human_."

Mick scoffs. "You mean he's human-looking," he says, because the bosses wouldn't be dumb enough to put a human _here_. Not with just about every kid a different species of man-killer, and some of them with a distinct preference for human in their diet. Mick might be half-horse, but the jagged set of his canines and the strength of his bone-crushing molars isn't meant for _plantlife_. There are plenty of human-looking paranormals: nymphs and new-turned vamps, certain varieties of nightstalker Fae...

"The Fae say he's not sparking on their magesight at all," Ramesh says. "And the weres and vamps have been sniffing the air -"

"They're just showing off; they can't actually smell things in the intake building from here."

"But _still_!" 

"New kid's probably just human-looking," Mick says, but despite himself his interest is piqued. Centaurs had the second best natural magesight of all paras, second only to the Catfolk, meaning that Mick didn't have to put any effort into seeing the auras around him, not like the Fae that had to learn into it; that and a natural immunity to magic were the centaur's reward for having an inconvenient shape that didn't blend. It made them valuable to other paras, giving rise to deals like the one Mick's family had made; otherwise they would’ve gone extinct once their symbiotic human allies, the Amazons, retreated to Thermisycia with a large chunk of their kind.

Mick rubs the salamander mark on his wrist thoughtfully; he hadn't activated the human illusion once since he got tossed in here, because who needed it, but it occurs to him that the so-called human kid could be using a similar illusion. Mick's version was very fine and could mislead all five of a human's senses, but it didn't keep him hidden in magesight: maybe no one knew what he was, he hadn't really tested it, but they'd be able to tell he was _something_. It couldn't make him read like a full iron-blooded human.

If this kid had a better version, Mick wanted to know about it.

And so it happens that rather than pointed ignoring the spill of new kids, many wet behind the ears and pretending to be tough when it's obvious they're terrified, Mick's loitering around with his lunch tray, eating lunch. If one could call a pile of weeds two feet tall and a platter of bones lunch, which the correctional system did.

He spots the kid immediately.

He's of middling height - gawky, bony the way all adolescents are at a certain age (yes, even the nymphs and other seductress types), and just as dazed looking as the other kids, if not more. His eyes dart from side to side, the whites around the irises showing his fear.

No matter how much Mick strains his eyes and sight, he can't see so much as a glimmer of magic on his person. 

That's either a hell of a glamour or the kid really is human.

What the hell are the teachers _thinking_? It doesn't even matter if he's a human or not; he comes off as one so strong that unless he drops the disguise for something _really_ powerful, the rest of the yard's going to chew him up and spit him out just on principle. The weres are fucking _drooling_. 

The kid straightens his back and heads for the lunch line, shoulders squared and deliberately avoiding looking back at the staring masses. He has balls, Mick'll give him that much. It's not going to help him much.

Everyone watches with bated breath to see what type of food he goes for and there's plenty of whispering when he ends up selecting a hamburger, the most classically human food on offer. 

Mick snaps a bone between his teeth and watches.

The various gangs start scuffling over who'll be first to approach the kid, nothing too overt right under the still-watchful teachers' gazes, but everyone can see that they're starting to lose interest already. Soon, their attention will wander. 

It's the spring-heeled jack asshole whose gang of weres and vamps and Fae first approach the kid, six on one; the kid's eyes dart towards the door by the teachers are long gone. 

"Hey, kid," Jack says, his smile stretching past the edges of his mouth, revealing three sets of needle-point teeth like a shark. "How's it going?"

The kid stares down at his hamburger.

Jack slams his hand down on the table, startling the kid. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes," the kid says. 

"Ain't it polite to answer, then?"

"Didn't think it needed an answer," the kid says. "Since clearly ain't none of us going anywhere."

"Cute," Jack drawls, but he's clearly steamed that his gang - particularly the Fae, with their bizarre senses of humor - found it funny. "Now, boyo, what's your name?"

"Boyo?" the kid echoes. "What, were you a bad Irish accent in a past life?"

With a Central City nasal whine like the kid has, he has no business going around throwing accusations about people’s accents. Even if he’s right and Jack has about as much connection to Ireland as a box of Lucky Charms. 

Jack's eyes narrow, but he tries not to let himself rise to the bait. "We got problems, you see," he says, clearly figuring the kid to be too smart to hand his name out around a Fae. "My friends here are hungry -"

"Lucky us this is a lunch room."

Jack's hand shoots out and he knots his inhumanly long fingers in the kid's shirt, pulling him halfway up out of his chair. "Smartarses like you don't last long," he says, eyes glinting, and he leans his head in and takes a nice, long inhale. "God, smell that, don't you? That's fear, it is; good old-fashioned _human_ fear."

One of the weres, squatting down, dashes forward to sniff at the kid's leg. "Oh, yesss," he whines, slobbering over himself. "I can smell it, yes yes, I can, it's so good -"

"I want the first swallow of blood," Trixie, a pale-faced vamp, eyes glowing sickly yellow as her kind tends towards. She puts her hand on Jack's arm; they've been sleeping together for a while now, prom king and queen of juvie. "Before you rend his flesh. Please, Jack. You can make the first cut if you like."

The kid, bless his little heart, tries to fight back, but he fights human-strong, which is to say nothing against even the most juvenile paranormals. 

The weres and the Fae have him pinned down, the weres slobbering over his legs and the Fae on his arms, Jack above him with a vamp on each side, and Jack slowly and with great relish extends the long, thin blade that he keeps within his wrist.

The kid fights, still fighting, but no powers, no glamour, nothing.

Welp, only one way to get the answers Mick wants then. 

Mick pushes his lunch tray aside, letting it clatter to the ground with a distracting clamour, and then he rears up and _charges_.

Centaurs aren't much respected in the para community. Badly sized, no-magic, no-shifting, awkward mish-mashes with _horses_ , of all things, a prey animal. Pathetic left-behinds, really; ill-adapted for the modern era. Humans even think they're _cute_.

All of that falls away when a centaur charges, because Mick's five feet of horse and another three of man, nearly eleven feet from head to tail, and when he charges, people - any people, no matter the species - stop thinking and start running.

The gang scatters like a flock of frightened pigeons. 

"Keep off," he roars, enjoying how they quiver before him in the moment before they wrest control back from their hindbrains. 

But then they do, and they see their human prey slipping out between their fingers, and desperation makes them leap forward when they know better than to try to fight Mick.

Mick rears up and slams a hoof into the chest of one of the weres, throwing him back across the room, and he plants a fist in the other, knocking him back into the second vamp. The Fae tries to cast a malediction, but it slides right off Mick's back; Mick puts one of his back hooves into him. 

Jack hisses and springs aside, extending his blades from both wrists and heels for greater mobility. He jumps from one side, and Trixie from the other, and the fact that Mick can see what they're planning wouldn't have helped him against two of them at once if the stupid kid hadn't leapt for Jack's legs.

Jack falls flat on his face and Mick puts his fist into Trixie's face before turning to face Jack, who's kicking the kid away. Mick stomps on Jack's hand, then reaches down grab him by the collar and throws him across the room. 

It's too late for the kid, though; Jack's sharp bladed spring-heels have ripped long cuts in his hands and torso, and the sharp smell of iron fills the room.

Human blood.

"Shit," Mick says, and grabs the kid off the floor and into his arms before galloping for the door as the juvie yard breaks out into wild, _hungry_ howls and rushes for him in a single, teeming mass of tooth and fang.

Mick leaps the lunch table and barrels out through the door. The kid curls up in his arms.

He smells like iron and he weighs no more than a feather.

Mick aims for the infirmary, dodging the grasping hands from the kids between him and there, leaping when he had to. The kid's blood was all over Mick's hands and chest.

How much blood can a human lose? Mick's not sure. He knows how much there is in a pig, in a cow, in a chicken, all the farmyard butchering, but his parents judged him too young to help with any carving up of any human meat for the parties and holidays and such.

Mick kicks his heels back at a few last stragglers and gets through the infirmary door. The second he does, the wards snap up behind him, blocking anyone with aggressive intent from entering the infirmary. There are several loud thuds against the wards. Then a moment of silence as the crowd catches up with those at the head of the pack, then the real pounding at the door begins.

The satyr doctor looks up, thick eyebrows arching. 

"I think he might be dying," Mick blurts out, even though he doesn't care, not _really_. Kid's a nobody human after all, even if he did save Mick a nasty scrapping by leaping for Jack when he did.

Kid had balls, like Mick'd noticed before. Be a shame for him to die so quick.

"Put him on the bed," the satyr says briskly. Mick does, then backs away so the nurses can swarm forward to help. He finds himself tapping his hoof in nervousness, a nervous tic he thought he got rid of ages ago. He wants to light a fire.

Maybe on Jack's head, if the stupid human kid dies before Mick gets a chance to question him.

"Mr. Rory," the satyr says, appearing by Mick's elbow and making Mick startle. Satyrs are fucking sneaky, even when they don't mean to be; Mick's amazed more of their patients don't die of fright. "I'm pleased to inform you that Mr. Snart will be all right."

"Mr. Snart?" Mick echoes, puzzled. 

"The new boy."

"Oh. Uh, good. That's good. What're you gonna do with him? You can't send him back to the yard, not now that they've smelled him bleed."

"That does seem to be a problem," the satyr says. "You acted quite altruistically in bringing him here, Mr. Rory; you had no desires to consume the boy yourself..?"

"You're kidding, right?" Mick says skeptically. "I only _look_ like I'm half herbivore. He smelled like a rare tenderloin; I was drooling half to hell." In fact, he'd licked his hands clean - a bit rude, perhaps, but there was no sense in wasting any. They never got served human meat in juvie.

"But you didn't act on that urge, and instead brought him here for healing," the satyr says. "You’re not who I had in mind, but I think, perhaps, you would do quite well to keep an eye on Mr. Snart for his time here in juvenile detention."

Mick barks out a sharp laugh. "You're kidding, right?" he asks. "Even if I was inclined to protect him, which I'm _not_ , I'd be getting into fights every hour of the day and night over him, and as good as I am, eventually I'd lose."

The satyr doctor nods. "That would be a problem, yes, but we're prepared to offer you an unbinding rune - and permission to employ it within walls."

Mick's eyes widen. An unbinding rune was a hell of a lot more power than the little magic tricks and cantrips even the strongest magic-user trapped in here could do, what with the walls so tightly laced with protective magic. Mick could use it to ward his door from intruders - or blast someone's head off. He could summon fires to dance for his pleasure any time he wanted.

"Why didn't you just give the kid a protection rune?" Mick asks suspiciously. "Seems like a lot less trouble."

"Technically, we're not allowed to act to protect any of the students until there has been a documented aggressive act threatened against them. But now that there has been –” The thuds against the protective wards are still going, although lesser in quantity as only the dumbest or most instinct-driven keep trying futilely to get in. “– well, a protective rune would be the appropriate solution in most cases, yes." The satyr coughs. "I trust you're familiar with the downsides of a protective rune?"

"Yeah, no one gets in to touch you, for good or evil, for the duration of the rune," Mick says. "But surely a bit of loneliness -"

"Would be traumatic to a human," the satyr says firmly. "They're social creatures, much more so than any paranormal. They require regular physical contact. In addition, humans simply don't have the life force to maintain a magic rune of that power without serious magical training, not for as long as he'd need it. Putting him under someone's protection seems a far better solution."

"And you want _me_ to do it? You know who I am and what I'm in for, right?"

The satyr shrugs. "I suspect you'll be getting into more than a handful of fights on the subject of your new ward," he says dryly. "Regardless of what protective use you turn your rune towards. Nevertheless, to sweeten the pot, if Mr. Snart survives his tenure here, your own will be shortened by half."

Mick straightens in interest. Half gets him out just young enough for the early files to get sealed up; it'll make him legit just long enough for him to get the legal paperwork he needs if he's going to buy himself some extra magic to supplement his salamander-glamour: a quantum curving spell, to bend doors and elevators so that he doesn't have to duck every time he goes indoors, for one. More firepower, for another.

"Okay," he says. "Say I'm interested."

"Good. The terms are as follows: Mr. Snart is to survive his term of sentence, six months. Minor injuries or things than can be healed by either human technology or magic are acceptable; long-term injuries or significant harm is not. If you intend to feed on him, do so in moderation -"

Mick blinks.

"- and in view of your, ah, anatomical differences, I would recommend that any sexual relationship be pursued with -"

"Please stop," Mick says. 

"Very well. At the very least, if you have any doubts as to what constitutes minor injury or lasting harm, please feel free to consult with the infirmary. Such conversations will of course remain confidential."

"You really don't give a damn so long as he walks out the door six months from now, do you?" 

The satyr inclines his head and shrugs.

"Why the hell did you let him in here, anyhow?" Mick demands, curiosity getting the better of him. "He's human! _Really_ human, no glamour or nothing. Shouldn't he have gone to regular juvie?"

The satyr shrugs. "There are extenuating circumstances," he says. "He was caught by the paranormal detection matrix, magic detected, and the process of moving him into the system got started automatically before anyone realized the, ah, potential difficulties."

"Magic detected?" Mick says, surprised. "Kid's a _sorcerer_?" It takes some serious levels up in human magic to hit the paranormal detection matrix, so it's rare to see any human sorcerer of any notable strength below a certain age, but the kid didn't even throw a cantrip in his own defense. Some sorcerer.

"No," the satyr replies, surprising Mick yet again. "He's not. Now will you take Mr. Snart back to - wherever it is that you reside?"

"Right," Mick says, then hesitates. "He doesn't need more medical stuff?"

"The cuts were mostly superficial," the satyr says. "It would have been at most a dozen stitches, but I used some magic to glue it together instead, in view of this being his first visit to the infirmary. Don't rely on it."

Mick nods. "Okay," he says. "Guess I'll take Snart. What's his first name, anyway?"

"Leonard," the satyr says. "Good luck, Mr. Rory. Please do not darken my door again too quickly."

Mick goes to the bed, where little, _human_ Leonard Snart is fast asleep, pumped fill of magic sedatives and healing endorphins, and scoops him up to take him back to his room. He'd avoided a roommate until now, but there was still an extra bed in the room. Snart could use that.

And when he woke up, Mick was going to get some answers out of him, whether Snart liked it or not.

Six months of power and fights over this human brat's life. What the hell has Mick signed himself up for?


	2. 2

The kid - Leonard Snart, apparently - wakes up in the human way, which is to say in stages and backwards, his brain lingering in slumberland even as his body marched inexorably towards awareness.

He slits open his eyes to look around before he fully opens them, though, which might have even helped against a human.

"I know you're awake," Mick says. "Stop faking."

The kid opens his eyes the rest of the way.

"You saved my life," he says flatly. Statement of fact, not a thank you, no explicit acknowledgment of debt; maybe the boy _does_ have some real experience with the paranormal. 

"Yeah, I did," Mick says, crossing his arms. 

"What do you want?"

Mick arches his eyebrows.

"Somehow, don't seem too likely you did it out of the goodness of your heart," Snart drawls.

"I got some questions for you," Mick replies. No need to let the kid know about his deal with the bosses. "You answer them honestly and do what I say, and maybe I can help you stay alive a little longer."

The kid nods, looking down at his bandaged fingers and chest. "Okay. No stitches?"

"Nah, you got a first infirmary visit freebie spell-cast," Mick says. 

"Oh."

"Now, tell me, what the fuck are you?"

Snart blinks at him. He's got pretty eyes, at least. "I - what am I?"

"That's question number one, yeah. Kind of rude, but what're you gonna do."

"I'm human," Snart says. 

"Sorcerer?"

"No. I mean, not that I know of, anyway."

"For humans, sorcery's got to be learned," Mick says with a shrug. "If you were one, you'd know. Okay. Anything magic about you at all?"

"I don't think so?"

Mick eyes the kid skeptically, but he doesn't seem to be lying.

"Right," he says. "So when'd you first get mixed up with paranormals?"

"When'd I first find out about 'em, you mean?"

"Sure, let's start there," Mick says, figuring they may as well let the kid get out whatever sob story he had - changeling stolen by the Fae and escaped, given a magic blessing by a nymph in return for a favor, joined a vamp gang as a blood-bonded, whatever. There are a million ways it could have happened, a human finding out what exists in the world, but in the end it's all variations on a theme: predator and prey animal, with the humans in the latter category. 

"Well," Snart says, clearly making an effort to focus. Not surprising that he's still woozy; humans are notoriously susceptible to magic. "One of the kids had horns. And another one had - gills, I think. So I figured -"

"One of the kids where?" Mick cuts in to ask, with what he thinks is admirable patience.

"On the bus," Snart says blankly.

Mick sighs. "On the bus _where_?"

"Here, of course."

Mick pauses to consider that from all angles. "Here," he says slowly. "You telling me you didn't know about the paranormal till you were put on the bus to _paranormal juvie_?"

The kid shrugs and nods.

"Who the fuck did you piss off?" Mick asks, amazed. "The teaches said you pinged the detection matrix, so there's gotta be _something_ about you, but - shit, you've gotta know something. Like, you didn't give Jack your name, in the cafeteria. You knew better."

Snart frowns. "I was just mouthing off ‘cause he seemed like a dick. Am I not supposed to introduce myself?"

"Pick a nickname and use that," Mick advises. "But - you didn't thank me for saving your life. How'd you know not to do that?"

"Why should I thank you for doing something that you probably did for your own reasons?" Snart says, bewildered.

"Shit," Mick says. "You're not savvy, you're just a rude, uncultured little brat. Fucking hell."

Snart bristles a little. "It's not my fault," he says. "And those fuckers tried to kill me! I'm not gonna be polite."

"Eat," Mick corrects.

"What?"

"Eat you," Mick says. "Not 'kill you', they wanted to _eat_ you."

Snart pales.

"You didn't realize?"

Snart shakes his head mutely. Humans are always kind of weird when they find out they’re not at the top of the food chain.

"You know what they are?"

"Spiky guy, goth chicks, two dog-boys and a wannabe clown?"

Mick closes his eyes like that will make the pain stop. "Kid," he says. " _Kid_. Fucking hell. Okay. Let's start with the basics. You ever heard of vampires?"

"Yeah," Snart says. "Like in the movies."

"Those were the goth chicks. You can id them based on their yellow eyes, distorted necks, and their grey skin. Corpse-like, y'know?" 

Snart nods, his eyes wide.

"Jack - that's the guy in front, with the blades - is a spring-heeled jack -"

"And his name is _Jack_?" Snart exclaims. "And I thought my name was dumb."

Mick smirks, not disagreeing. "The dog-men were werewolves - you can _always_ tell, because they're wolves all month long, not just on the moon. Physically, look for claws, fangs, and an incredibly annoying tendency to sniff _everything_."

"And what about the clown?"

"The - are you talking about the Fae?"

"He looked weird and was wearing, like, fifteen different colors."

Mick sighs. "The Fae are diverse as hell, but if you look close, their pupils are star-shaped, not round. They're also assholes that like to steal memories and people and fuck with just about everything; luckily, they usually stay bound close to their home hills unless they're forced to come to someplace like this."

Len frowns. 

"What, vamps and weres and jacks are okay, but Fae are a step too far?"

"No, just - if that's what they normally do, what did they do to get sent to juvie?"

Mick pauses, not having thought of that. "I think juvie's the punishment that their Kings and Queens mete out," he temporizes. "Fuck if I know what they think is wrong or right."

Snart nods.

"You see anything else, you keep your mouth shut and don't say a word till we're back in here; I don't much like the idea of advertising how dumb you are."

"Makes sense," Snart says. "So what's the price?"

"What?"

Snart rolls his eyes. "You saved me and you're talking like you're gonna keep saving me. You're not doing that out of the kindness of your heart, so either you want something from me or you're getting something from the bosses."

Huh.

"You know, paranormals have been around a lot longer than humans," Mick says conversationally. "We're bigger and scarier than your kind will ever be. But we're the ones that live in hiding. You know why?"

"Why?" Snart says, sounding wary.

"Humans are creative, stubborn, and too _fucking_ smart for their own good. Guess I was wrong when I called you dumb, huh?" Mick smiles as Snart looks adorably taken aback at the compliment, like a kitten tasting catnip for the first time. "Just uneducated, is all, and that can be fixed. You're right - I'm getting paid to make it my job to keep an eye on you." He puts a hand on Snart's shoulder. "So you make my job easier, and it'll be better for both of us, you got that?"

"Yes, Mick," Snart says obediently, but you don't need magesight to see that that promise is as good as the paper it's written on - which is to say, none at all. A kid that finds out about the paranormal, nearly gets eaten, and then still throws himself body-first at a spring-heeled jack isn't the sort of kid you can easily cow.

"Glad we understand each other, Snart."

"Len," Snart says. "Call me Len."

Mick inclines his head in agreement. Maybe this won't be too bad. 

He'll even limit himself to only a _few_ nibbles of human flesh a week. Len'll hardly even notice it.

"Do you want some steak?" Len asks suddenly.

Mick blinks. "How's that?"

Len pulls two things of steak out of his pocket, barely seared at all, and offers Mick one. "Didn't expect to last long enough to finish my burger and figured I'd be either dead or hungry later."

"You realize I'm half horse, right?" Mick asks, amused. "Maybe I'm a vegetarian."

Len snorts. "Not with jaws like that you ain't. You want it or not?"

Yeah. Maybe this won't be that bad at all. There are plenty of uses for a clever human outside of the dinner plate, after all.

"Sure," Mick says, and accepts the food.

The next few weeks are – to Mick’s utter lack of surprise – utter hell. 

Mick slipped out to get his unbinding rune tattooed onto his upper right arm, prime casting position, and immediately used the first jolt of power to weave up a protective shield around himself, designed to shock anyone who came too close without permission. The administrators nodded approvingly and let him go back to his room, where Len was still asleep.

That taken care of, Mick promptly uses the remaining power to fireproof his little protective ward, now including Len and his bed, and sets the rest of the room on fire.

Len wakes up yelping, which is hilarious.

Despite this incident - which mostly results in Len giving Mick dirty looks, because apparently he doesn't know the meaning of fear - Len sticks to Mick's side like glue for the first few days as other paras make both subtle and overt attempts to draw him away.

Ironically, the wendigo is nearly the most successful, despite having absolutely no human-luring traits at all and being utterly monstrous in appearance, purely by getting into a long and surprisingly involved discussion of a television show about space they both like. Mick got up to leave - having ignored them both throughout lunch - and Len doesn’t immediately join him, forcing Mick to trot back double-quick to get him back inside the protective circle.

(Hilariously enough, the wendigo didn't use the few minutes he had to devour any part of the vulnerable human in front of him, which any reasonable para would have expected, and instead makes Len promise to write him some sort of treatise on the show spin-off idea they were discussing. _Nerds_.)

The following day, day three of what's looking like a very long six months, Len opens his mouth. And doesn't close it again.

"Is there a para that looks just like a human but talks at triple speed?" Mick asks Niobe, a sand-sprite. 

"Roadrunner-trickster?" she says doubtfully. "But then he'd have feathers. Maybe a hare, or coyote?"

"His heartbeat's too slow for a hare," Mick says with a sigh. "And his teeth are too flat to be any form of canine."

"He does talk a lot, though," she says, nodding to where Len is currently yelling (from the safety of Mick's protective ward) about a hockey tournament that humans hold every year with a group of weres. Talking with weres at the dinner table is a form of masochism, but Len's apparently gotten over his inital fright at being surrounded by man-eaters and just sits there and lets himself get splattered by the blood spurting out of the deer legs they're chowing down on. Terrible table manners, weres; the whole species are daintier eaters in their wolf forms than in their humanoid ones.

"No kidding," Mick says, and goes to beat in the head of a Fae trying to weave a spiderweb trap to capture his human in. People really should just get it through their heads already that no one’s laying a finger or tooth on _Mick’s_ human.

That's how he knows, about two months in, that there's something wrong with Len. He stops talking so much, starts picking at his food (not that his chicken meatloaf looks appetizing), and starts dragging his feet as he walks through the hallways at Mick's side.

Mick is annoyed to find himself worrying not just for fear of losing his sweet deal but also because it's gotten too damn quiet in his cell without Len's chattering.

When pressed, Len just shrugs and says it's nothing, he's just tired. When pressed harder, he tries to pretend to be cheerful, which somehow even more disturbingly grotesque so Mick tells him to knock it off.

Mick sends a note explaining the issue to the satyr doctor, who sends a note back that just says, "Humans are delicate creatures with many requirements. Could be anything."

Options exhausted, Mick groans and goes over to beard the lion in his den, namely the giant pile of blankets Len has piled on himself.

"Kid," he says. "Are you sick?"

"Just tired."

"Depressed?"

"No. Just tired."

Mick bites his lower lip thoughtfully. What could be missing from the kid's life? He had food with all the necessary ingredients, enough sun, enough room to exercise; there was no reason for him to be wilting.

Wait, that wasn't everything.

Mick reaches out and grabs Len's foot from under the blankets, pulling him out even as Len starts complaining. It’s mild bitching compared to what he’s usually able to muster up: Len’s gotten used to being manhandled, because it’s easier for both of them. "I figured out the issue," Mick declares.

"There's no issue, I'm telling you -"

Mick wraps his arms around Len.

"-what are you doing."

"Hugging you. Obviously."

"Yeah, but _why_? You hate touchy-feely crap."

"Yes, I do, but your wilting is starting to bug me. If you need me to fill your stupid human social and physical contact quota 'cause I'm the only one who won't kill you, so be it."

"There's no such thing," Len protests.

"Oh yeah?" Mick says. "Then why aren't you trying to get out?"

"You're huge and a para," Len sniffs. "I'd never make it."

"I'll let you go if you want me to."

Telling silence.

"Knew it," Mick says smugly and studies his slippery charge now that he has him up close. 

Len's skinny - way too skinny for a human his age - and he's blemished with far too many scars. He twitches every time Mick makes a move, even just shifting position, but if Mick stays still and just holds him, he slowly starts to unwind. He's bony, though: sharp elbows, sharper knees, protruding ribs apparent on his bleeding chest -

Bleeding?

Mick inhales, Len's head rising and falling peacefully as he does, but he doesn't smell iron. Yet there's definitely a faint stain on Len's shirt, some smear of dark color.

"What'd you do to your chest?" Mick asks.

"Hmm?" Len asks from where he is, by now, entirely cuddled up against Mick, fingers playing a little with the spots on Mick's sides and back where the horsehair slowly recedes into pink flesh. 

"Your chest."

"Nothing," Len says, pulling back and poking it at obediently; he knows that if he lies, Mick will take a bite out of him in vengeance for not adequately caring for himself. It might be counter-intuitive and possibly somewhat problematic, but Mick gets regular nibble of human flesh and Len is slowly learning not to hide his injures from Mick because a centaur bite is easily treatable but a Fae's malediction can turn infectious and spread. "There's nothing, Mick, really."

Len's voice is even and puzzled; he doesn't sound like he's covering up.

Mick pulls away - Len makes a reluctant noise that he only half manages to cover up, which means he definitely needs more contact - and squints at Len's chest. There's a stain, yes, but if he really focuses it gets clearer, which means it might be his magesight acting up again.

Horses have super-enhanced detection senses, and centaurs can do the same with magic, often unconsciously. Still, if it's a malediction, even a mild one, Mick doesn't want it to be left untreated. 

"Take off your shirt," he says.

Len just stares mutely. 

"Well, go on; I want a closer look."

"Okay," Len says, and starts pulling it off. Mick's glad that he hasn't been taking the crude jokes people have been tossing around - mostly about Mick and Len's respective size, and Mick's equine half - to heart. He's just shy about his scars, even though they can be seen under the shorter-sleeved shirts he's sometimes obliged by the dread laundry cycle to wear.

Len clutches the shirt to his chest for a moment after pulling it off - his shoulders and arms are covered with little cuts and scrapes, beatings and scaldings and scratches from falling without anyone to help him up, which is why he belongs to Mick now - and then reluctantly drops it.

There's a mark on his chest, right above his heart. On the surface, it looks like another jagged cut made from a bottle, albeit a nasty one. But it _glows_ in Mick's sight. Faintly, but definitely glowing.

"Where'd you get that one?" Mick says.

Len blinks and looks down. His human eyes can almost certainly only see another scar. 

"My dad and his friends," he says with a shrug. "Same as the rest."

"No, that one specifically," Mick insists. "How'd you get it?"

"Dad had some friends over," Len says. "They gave me some of their beer - I didn't really want any, but they insisted it'd make me more of a man - and then I got woozy and they made me lie down on the table. And later on dad smashed a bottled and stabbed me with it while the others held me down. But not, like, really deep or anything, and they did patch me up after -"

"Shit," Mick says. "They patched you up after?"

"Yeah," Len says, confused but willing to answer. "They don't normally, but they did the whole thing."

"Did your dad stop hitting you so much after that?"

"Yeah, actually," Len says. "It wasn't long before I got tossed in here, but he was pretty good about keeping sober and even when he got mad he just threw some stuff around instead of throwing me around. Why? How'd you know?"

"I think I figured out why you got picked up by the paranormal detection matrix," Mick says. "That rune is faint enough that I couldn't see it until we were up close and personal, and I'm a _centaur_. Other than Catfolk, we've got the best natural magesight of all paranormals; anything else would have missed it and a regular spellcast exam wouldn't have caught it."

"Rune?" Len says, correctly focusing on the most important part of Mick's sentence. "Like the one on your arm that lets you do the shield-and-fire trick?"

"Sort of," Mick says. 

"What does mine do?"

"If I'm right, it's a stasis adjustment," Mick temporizes. “Don’t worry about it.”

Unfortunately, that just gets Len's suspicions up. "Mick. What does it do?"

"Uh," Mick says. "I think you're pregnant."

Len gapes for a long minute. "Are you kidding me?" he finally says. "A, guys can't get pregnant -"

"Human males can't," Mick agrees. “Even with magic, it’s kind of iffy.”

"And B, I've never had sex _anyway_. Never even kissed nobody."

Now, Mick knows for a fact that there's no difference between virgin blood and the regular stuff, but it’s like expensive wine: just knowing about the price makes it tastier. Mick’s really going to have to investigate that phenomenon now that he knows that unbearably fascinating little bit of trivia.

"I think that's a requirement, actually," Mick says, forcing himself back on the topic at hand. "You're impregnated with a shadow-walker. They're Fae, strong ones, but if you want to get one under your control you need to incubate it for a year in the body of a virgin human." 

Len makes a face. "Ick," he says with distaste. "Can we get it out?"

"I'll talk to the docs first thing tomorrow," Mick promises, carefully not mentioning that at the end of the year incubation period, the Fae usually bursts out of the host in a flurry of blood and gristle and gore, and then it devours the still-living remains of its host.

No need for Len to know that till after the thing is removed.

"And when we're done, can you help immunize me from that?" Len asks, sliding back towards Mick pointedly. Mick, getting the hint, wraps his arms back around Len and lets the human snuggle up closer.

"How's that?" he asks. "I never said there was a vaccine, Len."

"But you did say it can only happen to virgins," Len points out.

Mick's not always the sharpest tool in the shed, but he's not stupid, either. He leans down, telegraphing his moves in advance, and Len leans his head back willingly, and Mick gives his human boy his first kiss.

_His_ human boy. No one else's, not now, not _ever_. Not even after the six months are done.

Centaurs don't mate for life or any of that crap, but Mick's family has always had a thing for devotion. And really, what with all the protecting Mick’s been doing, he should’ve realized that he was hooked already. 

Len probably has no idea what he's just signed up for, but hey, it seems have been working well for him up till now, so why change?


	3. Thirty Years Later

_Thirty Years Later:_

"My partner and I bring some special skills to the table," Len drawls at the cheerful yet suspicious face of one Mr. Raymond Palmer. 

"Yeah, criminal skills," Palmer says with a scowl.

"Sure," Len says with a shrug that has his shoulder brushing by Mick's withers in a clear _fuck this guy, right?_ move.

No one can see it, of course; Mick's glamour is as solid as a brick of Fae silver and has been ever since Len hunted him down a real live phoenix and bribed the old guy to make Mick a permanent glamour-spell. Mick hadn't even known there were any of those left. Phoenix magic is the best for fire glamours - humans think their legends were inspired by fucking _comets_ , because humans are weirdos - and the feather-claw-feather-claw of the phoenix now has pride of place on Mick's forearm, just behind the encircling salamander mark, right under the swirling rune-marks that stretched up his arms: the acquisitions of a quarter century of running with a rapacious and very determined human adrenaline junkie. 

Mick has a startling number of runes and creature-trades for a centaur as young as he is: the salamander and phoenix glamours, the curving rune, several unbinding runes, a jotun hand-print on one shoulder for the ability to shield Len from his own damn cold gun, a Fae-ring above the other elbow for inducing sleep with a touch for Len's nightmares, the were-mark for quick healing curling over his shoulder that saved his ass when he got himself stuck in that fire a few years back...

There's a reason Mick and Len are the best in their very narrow field of stealing from the biggest, baddest paranormals out there: Len has the classic human forward drive, the endless ingenuity and stubbornness that made his species the dominant one on the planet, and Mick is as powerful as Len can make him. Some of the most powerful runes Mick has tattooed on him were obtained as an accidental side effect of one of Len's screwy ideas.

Human boredom is truly a thing to be feared.

But no matter how powerful Mick is now, thanks to the phoenix-mark, neither human nor paranormal can tell that Mick's anything but true-born human: Stein's walked into Mick's ass three times without noticing.

Mick's glad he's got it, because the lady revnant in white - he'd make a crack about her being traditional, except he's got the funny feeling that she actually means white as in "good", which is so patently America-centric that Mick's just dying to make a joke about it that no one will get but Len - seems to realize something's a bit off but clearly can't seem to put her finger on why.

Revnants are weird, anyway. Some of them don't even realize they're paranormals; they somehow still think they're human, despite all evidence to the contrary: the bloodlust, the enhanced senses and skills, the accelerated reflexes.

Hunter does take Mick aside and, clearing his throat awkwardly, says, "Gideon has informed me that - ah - well, if you wanted something more stable-like...with, ah, hay or some such..."

Mick gapes a little. "No," he says slowly. "That isn't necessary."

Humans are so _weird_.

Mick ends up using a rune to glue himself to the deck during take-off, since obviously he can't fit into those stupid chairs Hunter waves them towards. He assumes that this is what Hunter intended. 

A month or two later, turns out that Hunter brought him on board because Len wouldn't go without him. That Hunter thinks Mick has the IQ of meat - Mick's not taking offense at that, since technically Lenny is meat and Mick would be complimented if someone thought he had Len's IQ - but, more to the point, that Hunter doesn't need the services of a crazy pyromaniac with delusions of being a horse.

Mick stares at Hunter for a long moment, then starts laughing. Oh, this is good; this is great. Mick should've realized it when Hunter confessed that they weren't in the timeline. He's been using the glamour so long that his identity as Heatwave has overtaken his identity: the who he is having more of an impact on the timeline than the _what_. It's a signal honor that virtually no paranormals ever achieve. 

Mick can't wait to share this with Len. 

But first, he needs to get back _to_ Len.

He cuts a deal with the pirates and gets back to the Waverider. When his double-cross is revealed, Sara raises her weapon and Ray says, dismayed, "But Mick..."

Len just smiles, and slams the button that slides the outside door to the airlock shut again, leaving Mick and the pirates trapped in a ten-by-ten room between the outside door and the inside door.

"That's not going to help them," one pirate says scornfully. "We're already on their ship; they can't space us now."

Correction: the pirates are now trapped _with_ Mick.

Mick smiles, rears back and brings his hooves down.

Ten minutes later, he knocks on the airlock and says, "Honey, I'm home!"

The door slides open again. Len is smirking and the other two are gaping. There wasn't a window, so they didn't see exactly what happened, but the end result - dead bodies, twelve in all, and Mick grinning fit to split his face.

"Well done," Sara says, clearly revising her estimate of Mick upwards from 'dumb thug' to 'potentially dangerous dumb thug'.

"I knew you wouldn't betray us," Ray says happily.

"The others?" Len asks.

Mick shrugs. 

"Guess it's time to rescue our captain from his own incompetence. Again."

"Speaking of whom," Mick says. "I've got something funny to tell you."

"Oh?"

"He didn't know the what of me."

Len's eyebrows shoot up. "Then why..?"

"Oh, you'll love this," Mick says, beaming. "Best way I figure it, he got our names from studying up on the Flash. So - supervillain thieves, not specialist thieves."

"You're joking."

"Nope."

"You realize I'm asking you what the hell you're both talking about as soon as the others are rescued, right?" Sara asks as Ray nods.

Twenty minutes later, the whole thing's wrapped up and they're on their way to the 1950s. 

"I'm impressed that you defeated twelve time pirates on your own, Mr. Rory," Rip says stiffly. "I seem to have underestimated you."

"No kidding," Mick says dryly.

"Is there any reason you've insisted on keeping some of the bodies on board?"

"Dinner," Len drawls.

"Mr. Snart, is this really the time? I doubt any of us can keep it down with the stench of rotting flesh beside us," Stein says.

"No, they _are_ dinner," Mick clarifies. "Human meat's perfect for a celebration."

"You're a _cannibal_?!" Jax exclaims.

"Can't be a cannibal," Len says. "He doesn't eat his own kind. Just humans."

"I'm a centaur," Mick says.

"Oookay," Jax says. "Um."

"He is," Len says agreeably.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Rip snaps. "This is hardly the time for indulging in your partner's delusions -"

"I knew there was something about you," Sara says.

Mick nods. "Revnant senses," he says. "You couldn't see past my glamour, but your brain pinged something."

"No one ever walks right behind you for any reason," Sara says with satisfaction.

"It's half glamour, half human instinct," Len puts in with a smirk. "No one walks that close to a horse's ass."

Mick flips him off, because that joke was old centuries ago.

"Wait, are y'all being serious?" Jax asks.

"You believe that I came back from the dead, didn't you? You're on a time travel ship, aren't you?" Sara says, crossing her arms. "This isn't that much further out there. Paranormals are a fact of life in the League - admittedly a very rare one, and not one I've ever met in person, but it's there."

"But..."

"Believe it," Mick advises. "I have a glamour that makes me look human, that's all."

"Fascinating," Stein murmurs.

"I don't believe you," Rip says. "Your timeline said nothing -"

"I thought you picked us _because_ our timelines said nothing," Kendra points out.

"Very well, _Gideon_ said nothing about -"

"Glamour's designed against mechanical capture as well, Rip," Mick says, rolling his eyes. "Phoenix magic adapts with the times; it's kinda their _thing_."

"That's absurd -"

"Wait, if you're a centaur, does that mean centaurs eat human corpses?" Ray asks, looking fascinated. "I would've thought you'd be a vegetarian."

"All paranormals are man-eaters," Mick says. "All of them. No exceptions."

"Well -" Len starts, because he's a nit-picker.

"Those don't _count_! They still kill people, even if they still photosynthize their food. Fucking radish spirits."

"Can we see?" Ray says eagerly. "Not the, ah, man-eating, the other part -"

"Wouldn't want to scare you, _eagle_ scout," Len drawls.

Ray says something stupid about not getting scared after everything he's seen, but Mick is already shaking off the glamour.

"-oh god," Ray squeaks.

Sara's already halfway across the room, staffs extended automatically; Jax is three feet back with Stein frozen in place behind him; Rip has his gun out and Kendra her wings. 

"Now, now," Len says, carefully interposing himself between the humans and the monster like the idiot kid he'll always be inside. "You wouldn't be thinking of hurting my partner, would you?"

"He's a bit larger than I think we expected," Stein says faintly. 

"You guys haven't been near a horse in a while, have you?" Mick says, arching his eyebrows. "They're not small animals."

In the end, Mick's shire blood ran true: twenty hands to the withers, and a few extra feet of human on top of that. Some humans - of which Mick suspects Ray was one - have only see a horse for riding purposes, fair-sized animals with even dispositions and generally approached with a stepping-up block. Not an old cart-horse breed like Mick, bred for size and power as a warhorse then relegated to manual labor when they got too big even for war. Not something that weighs as much as a good sized car.

Mick smiles, the sight of his bone-crushing molars and curved canines drawing a groan of dismay from Jax and another "Fascinating!" from Stein. "I was wondering why Rip here wasn't using his assets to their fullest extent," he says. "I think we ought to - talk - about how our captain views us."

"You should've heard what he said to Mick on the ship," Jax puts in. He's a good kid, and not inclined to let little things like paranormal monsters get in the way of an injustice he sees being done to one of his team. "I wouldn't have been surprised if Mick turned on us for real after that."

The others look startled and displeased.

"I'm sorry if you took my words personally, Mr Rory, but we don't have time to sit around and talk about our feelings -" Rip starts.

"Even the quickest general knows when to regroup and reassess," Len drawls, his eyes glinting. He doesn't yet know what Rip said, but he's heard enough slurs thrown at Mick to get angry preemptively. It's like watching a fluffy little bird try to defend the honor of a wolf. "Given how much we've already failed to achieve anything - 2046 not even being a stable timeline - I think now's the time."

"Mr. Snart -"

Snart punch Rip in the face, then follows it up with one to the gut. Rip sprawls out on the ground, and Len's cold gun is in his face before anyone can react further.

"Thus far," Len says, voice long and measured and cold as ice. "We've nearly nuked Norway, gotten trapped by Savage in his own home because we didn't have proper prep, we've lost Kendra's professor, Carter, and nearly Kendra herself, we let Savage create a cult, and all that I could put aside, but you _ditched_ half our team in Russia and let them get sent to the gulag before encouraging Sara to off Stein 'cause it'd be safer than trying to rescue him. You're treating us like pawns, Rip, not like a team. We re-group now, or we're _out_."

Like a fluffy little bird with the temper of a rabid goose and a bazooka, anyway.

"You can't -"

"I don't give a crap about your family, Rip," Len says. "I'm here because I promised to kill Savage for assaulting my partner, and I intend to keep that promise. But things need to change. I'm not asking for a revolution, just a nice little meeting where we lay out our strengths, our weaknesses, and we make a plan for the future - _together_."

Maybe, just maybe, Mick will consider forgiving Len for bashing him up the head and floating him back to the Waverider in 2046. 

He'd already quizzed Gideon on her healing technology, which is excellent and includes regeneration. Mick can take a few bites out of Len and get him patched up enough to help again the next day, no problem.

Mick smiles.

The humans all take a step back at the sight of that smile, Rip scooting back on his ass, except for Len, but then Len never did have the self-preservation instincts that nature gave a jellyfish. 

"Are we agreed?" Len says.

"Yes!" Rip exclaims, his eyes still on Mick.

"Mick, I don't care what runes or tech is available, no eating bits off anyone, including me, till after our little powwow."

"Okay," Mick agrees, but only because he’s nice like that. He folds his legs down until he's on the ground. He's _still_ taller than some of them.

He holds out a hand and snaps a flame into existence, drawing gasps from the other crew members.

"Let's talk."


End file.
